


I Like How This Day Sounds

by MintSauce



Series: The Halfway House [21]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, a bit of fluff really, bath tubs, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3763741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintSauce/pseuds/MintSauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey really hates Ian when he's sick, but snot and all, this day isn't turning out too bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like How This Day Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is inspired by a Greg Laswell song. You should check it out! 
> 
> Still absolutely awed by all the support you guys have been giving me. Thank you!

Mickey slips out of the bed quietly five minutes after his alarm vibrated under his pillow.

            Ian mumbles something in his sleep, but doesn’t protest Mickey moving out of his hold. He just rolls over and buries his face into Mickey’s pillow, soon going back to snoring. Not that Gallagher will ever admit he snores.

            He can’t help but smile at the sight of him curled up there as he steps into his work overalls.

            He bends to press a dry kiss against Ian’s head, hears him mumble something again as he shuts the door quietly behind him. Half an hour later, when he’s already starting off on his route, his phone chimes with a text.

            _Miss you_.

            He rolls his eyes like he always does, texts back a: _Pussy_ and looks up to Louis smirking at him.

            “Every goddamn morning, man,” he mutters.

            “Fuck you,” Mickey replies, as is standard. “Just because your wife doesn’t want any more of your decrepit old cock.”

            Louis flips him off, pulls up against the curb again. “It’s the curse of kids, my friend,” he says as Mickey swings down out of the cab.

            He loads up and is back in his seat in record time. After enough years doing this job, he has it down easily. It doesn’t take long anymore.

            “You ever think of having kids?” Louis asks him.

            Mickey snorts, “It look like Ian or I have sprouted a uterus recently?”

            “Don’t spend that long looking at your downstairs, man, or your boyfriend’s,” he says, pulling a face. “But you knew what I meant.”

            Yeah Mickey did, but he’s getting a bit sick of so many people asking him and Ian about kids recently. He’s twenty five, why would he want as rugrat right now? He’s seen Mandy with one, it’s just frightening.

            “Because you’re totally selling parenthood to me with the whole lack of sex deal,” he says.

            Louis shrugs. “Every beautiful thing has to have its occasional pitfall.”

            “One, that was really fucking gay,” Mickey points out. “Two, I’d say no sex was a pretty big fucking pitfall.”

            “You have me there,” the other man admits.

            “Don’t I fucking know it.”

 

*****

 

 _Bring back soup_ is the text he gets just before he finishes his round.

            _You sick?_ he replies and gets nothing more than a key smash in return.

            It’s as much of a yes as anything else, but he still really hopes that Gallagher is just messing around. He hates Ian when he’s ill. The kid’s usually got a pretty wicked immune system, but that only means that he turns into double the whiney bitch when he gets sick.

            Still, he buys some of Ian’s favourite soup from the diner three blocks over from their street, makes Louis wait in the truck whilst he does it too so he doesn’t have to walk back and risk it going cold.

            “Such a married couple,” he calls after Mickey as he lets himself into his building.

            “Speak to me when you’re having sex again,” he shouts back, jogging up the stairs as fast as he can without sloshing the soup everywhere.

            He’s only been gone a couple of hours, but the Ian he comes back to looks completely different. His nose is bright red and he’s bundled up on the couch, eyes glazed and doing the best impression of a burrito that Mickey has ever seen.

            “I’m sick,” he mumbles when he spots Mickey. Or at least, that’s what Mickey thinks he says, because Gallagher’s voice is so thick with snot each word comes out absolutely disgusting and unrecognisable.

            He almost wants to laugh at him and would if it wasn’t so pathetic.

            “I got your soup,” he says.

            “You’re amazing,” he translates whatever the hell Ian replies as.

            “I know,” he mutters, transferring the pot into Ian’s blanket wrapped hands before going to the kitchen to fetch a spoon he’s only eighty per cent sure is clean.

            He smooths a hand over Ian’s head, loves the way the sweat curls his hair slightly. He’s only just started being able to persuade Ian to stop putting product in his hair all the time. He loves the curls it gets, loves running his fingers through them and how soft they feel.

            Of course, typically, Ian hates their very existence so it’s hard going, but Mickey still likes to try.

            “You didn’t seem sick when I left,” he says.

            Ian shrugs. “Was asleep.”

            That’s the difference between the two of them. Ian wakes up to find he’s sick. Mickey can’t sleep _because_ he’s sick.

            “You want me to get you anything else?” he asks, knowing already that Ian will tell him no and then proceed to wait until Mickey is comfortable before asking him to get something.

            “Just cuddle me,” Ian tells him, so despite the inevitable, Mickey plops down onto the sofa next to him and curls up as best he can around blanket!Ian. “This is nice,” he mutters, sounding sleepy.

            Mickey hums, knows he would prefer it if he’d come back to find Ian healthy, but he’ll take it where he can. A sick Ian is better than a healthy anybody else.

            “Ian?” he asks slowly as his head starts to loll against Mickey’s shoulder.

            “Yeah?”

            “Are you watching Freaky Friday?”

            Ian huffs out something that vaguely resembles a laugh and nods, his hair rustling against Mickey’s shirt. He can’t resist reaching up and tangling his fingers in the curls, scratching lightly against Ian’s scalp.

            “’tis a good movie, Mick,” he insists.

            “It really isn’t,” Mickey comments and then nudges him slightly. “And hey, eat you soup. I didn’t queue for that shit for nothing!”

            Ian dutifully lifts his head from Mickey’s shoulder longer enough to take a couple of sips straight from the container. He hums softly, slurping at it again before he holds it out to Mickey. “Would you put it in the fridge?” he asks. “Want it later.”

            “Of course you do,” Mickey mutters, nevertheless standing and doing as Ian asks.

            When he gets back, Ian shifts onto his side, head in Mickey’s lap and even goes as far as personally lifting Mickey’s hand back into his hair. As if Mickey could resist touching it when they’re lying like this anyway.

            “Don’t blame me if you choke on your own mucus lying like this,” he comments.

            Ian pulls a face, eyelids already drifting shut. “You’re such a charmer,” he says.

            “And don’t you forget it,” Mickey comments.

            The worst part of the situation though, he can’t reach the remote. _Freaky Friday it is then!_

 

*****

 

He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but Mickey wakes when Ian shifts in his lap.

            He’s somehow managed to lift the hem of Mickey’s t-shirt in his sleep, his warm cheek pressed against the revealed skin of Mickey’s belly. Mickey stretches, his back popping in at least three places.

            Ian mumbles something barely recognisable as words, rolling until he’s on his back. He snuffles, air making a horrible rattling sound in his chest as he takes a deep breath. Still, he smiles a small, pathetic little smile up at Mickey.

            “Hey,” he says softly.

            In the background, the television has moved on to playing Mean Girls. It’s arguably worse than Freaky Friday would have been.

            _Fucking Lindsay Lohan. Jesus_.

            “Hey,” Mickey replies, rubbing a gentle hand over Ian’s curls. “How’re you feeling?”

            Ian squints and sniffs. It’s a horrendous sound.

            “Like shit,” he replies. “I think I want a bath.”

            That’s a new one. Ian isn’t usually much for baths. He has a bit of a thing about water wastage and sitting in his own filth. At least that’s how he puts it anyway. Mickey’s never really had much of an issue with it.

            Maybe he’s just used to being filthy so has no problem sitting in the water. He just doesn’t get the problem, but Ian’s always been weird.

            “You sure you can handle that, twinkletoes?” Mickey asks, smirking.

            Ian bats at him weakly.

            “Baths are good for the soul,” he mumbles, voice full of snot.

            “Are you high?” Mickey asks, laughing at him.

            He scoots out from underneath Ian’s head, watching as the idiot flops an arm over his eyes dramatically.

            “Freak,” he mutters, hating how fond he sounds, but not really hating it at all.

            He takes a piss while the bath is running, fluttering his fingers under the flow to check it’s still running hot. Their boiler is better than the one either of them grew up with and miles better than anything they tolerated in The Halfway House. Still, it’s shitty and likes to cut out at random.

            He manages to get half the tub full before the water goes cold, but figures with Gallagher’s lanky ass in there pushing the level up, it’ll be fine.

            Knowing Ian, he’ll want to get out as soon as he gets in anyway. And sure, Mickey won’t be able to have a shower until the next afternoon, but it’ll be worth it if Ian thinks this is going to make him feel better.

            _Anything for Ian._ Christ, he’s pathetic these days.

            “Come on, sleepyface,” he says, tugging the blanket back that Ian’s thrown over his face. “Bath’s run.”

            “Well go chase it,” Ian mumbles, rolling onto his side and staring down at the floor like it’s the furthest thing away ever.

            How Mickey wound up with someone so ridiculous, he’ll never know.

            “You’re not funny,” he says.

            “Yes I am.”

            Mickey rolls his eyes and grabs one of the arms Ian flaps at him dramatically. “No you’re not,” he replies. He pulls, hauls Ian up until he’s practically lying on him. It’s like the guy has forgotten how to use his knees, he’s just sort of leaning there against Mickey.

            The true face of pathetic, thy name is Ian Gallagher.

            “You’ve got to put a little effort in here, Ian,” Mickey points out, shoving blankets out of the way so they don’t get tangled around his feet as he half-drags Ian to the bathroom.

            “Nah,” he mumbles.

            _Typical_.

            He feels like he’s Ian’s fucking carer as he strips the man’s clothes off, wincing at the way Ian shivers more and more with each layer that’s removed. He lowers him down into the water and sure enough, it rises enough with all of Gallagher’s ridiculously long limbs folded in.

            It’s a complete fluke that their apartment even has a bath. Pretty much every other one in the building has ripped them out and replaced them with a lone shower stall. Something Mickey only knows because with all this gentrification crap that’s been going on, the rest of the building has been bought out by some rich fucks looking to make a killing.

            Apparently this is the up and coming neighbourhood.

            It’s funny, because all those years ago when Ian had pointed up at the place and said, “ _This would be a good place to live_ ,”neither of them had had a clue just how right he had been.

            Honestly, they’d made a killing moving in when they had. Some prissy fucker had knocked on their door not even a month ago to ask if they’d consider selling. They were the third one to try and that wasn’t counting all the flyers that had been posted through.

            Mickey had just slammed the door in their faces after the second.

            He didn’t doubt more would be back.

            Still, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing that this was happening. At least not as far as their building went. The front door locks had been replaced with a better, more secure system and someone had sorted out the mailing so you could actually tell what was for which floor.

            It felt a lot like he was betraying his neighbourhood, but it wasn’t like the place had ever done much for Mickey in his life so he’d get over it. Besides, he and Ian weren’t exactly planning on going Northside, fuck that. They were happy being the little speck of dirt caught up on some rich prick’s jewel.

            It had its benefits.

            “Come in,” Ian says, tugging at Mickey’s arms when he’s settled back.

            There’s something about seeing Ian like this, naked and vulnerable with no intention of sex being on the table. It’s intimate in a way that stirs something in Mickey’s gut. He’s not quite sure what to do with it, but he doesn’t mind it so much.

            It’s quite a nice feeling when you think about it.

            “Man there ain’t no way we’re that gay,” Mickey says, prying his fingers loose. “And there also ain’t no way I’m fitting in there with your giant ass. Gallagher, _you_ hardly fit.”

            He should have seen it coming really.

            With a fit of strength Mickey wouldn’t have pegged him for having right then Ian jerks upright and grabs a hold of Mickey’s shoulders. He goes crashing in, clothes and all. He barely just manages to avoid knocking his head against the edge.

            His shoes are still on for fuck’s sake!

            “What the fuck,” he says, coming up spluttering and spitting a mouthful of water right into Ian’s face. “You’re a fucking dick!”

            Ian laughs, arms wrapped around his belly and the water sloshing around them and over the side. When he starts wheezing, Mickey smacks him. “Shut the fuck up with that noise, you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack!”

            Ian rolls his eyes, “Hardly, Mick.”

            He starts to protest as Mickey stands up, but settles down when he realises Mickey is just stripping out of his clothes. They make a horrendous noise as they _plop_ down against the floor. His shoes aren’t gonna be dry for at least a fucking week.

            Stupid, alien-looking Gallaghers. Mickey could kill him.

            “Well budge the fuck over then,” he mutters, shifting around on top of Ian. “Told you we wouldn’t both fit.”

            Ian huffs out the barest of laughs and rearranges them so that Mickey can slip in behind him. He leans back against Mickey’s chest, head resting against his collarbone.

            Mickey stares at their thighs pressed together, knees bent to fit in the tub. They’re both pale, but the dusting of ginger hair over Ian’s legs shouldn’t be as fucking attractive as it is. It’s ridiculous, being so attracted to someone’s legs.

            He’s almost disgusted with himself.

            “This is nice,” Ian mumbles, tangling their fingers together and resting them on his stomach.

            If Ian weren’t ill, one of them probably would have guided their hands down to Ian’s cock, but as it is, Mickey thinks he prefers the moment like this. It is nice, just lying here like this, it’s oddly effortless. There’s no expectation, just him and Ian in their own little world, letting the bath water go cold around them.

            “Yeah,” he mutters back, presses a kiss against the side of Ian’s damp hair.

            He can’t see it, but he knows Ian is smiling.

            “I didn’t used to think we’d get here,” Ian confesses, his words still thick with snot and every other gross thing you can name, but they’re already clearer than before.

            That’s the other thing with Ian, he’s never ill for very long.

            “Me neither,” Mickey admits. “Can you imagine what those fucks from the Halfway House would say if they could see us now?”

            He chuckles lowly and leans his face against the side of Ian’s head.

            Even in the water, Ian still smells faintly of sweat and musk, and that stupid citrus scented body wash he buys at about three bottles to the dollar. It’d be horrendous on anyone else and it still is a little horrendous on Ian, but Mickey begrudgingly loves it.

            “I don’t think they’d recognise us,” Ian says. “Especially not you.”

            “Why, what’s so different about me?”

            Mickey doesn’t think he’s changed that much, not to the rest of the world anyway.

            “There’s no blood on your face for one,” Ian replies. “But I dunno… guess you just grew up. We both did.”

            “Not a bad thing,” he says.

            “Never said it was.”

            They’re quiet for a little longer, just Ian’s laboured breathing and the sound of the water sloshing around against the sides of the porcelain.

            “I’m glad you came back for me,” Ian says suddenly, like the words just burst out of him unbidden.

            He presses a kiss against Mickey’s fingertips, a stupid gesture that makes Mickey’s stomach flip-flip like crazy. “Always,” Mickey says. “I’m just sorry I was late.”

            He wraps his arms tighter around Ian, sinks them both down just that little bit more.

            “You weren’t late,” Ian says, kissing Mickey’s fingers again, each ‘U’ of his tattoo. “You were right on time.”

            He smiles despite himself, nuzzles behind Ian’s ear. He remembers counting the days down to Ian’s birthday on a shitty calendar with pictures of cats. When that one had been done, he’s hung one with pictures of meadows. He remembers staring at the steadily increasing sea of ‘X’s and not knowing what he was going to do when he finally reached the circled date.

            He hadn’t had much of a plan back then. He still didn’t really, but it’s worked out well enough that way so far. He hadn’t been late even though in a lot of ways it had felt like he was. He’s never told Ian, but he’d been sitting underneath that tree since dawn, just waiting.

            Waiting to see how the rest of his life was going to play out.

            “I’ve been thinking of what you said,” he says since this seems to be a time for confessions.

            “About what?” Ian asks and then stills, apparently remembers. “About the tattooing thing?”

            Mickey nods, their skin brushing together, surprisingly dry where the rest of their bodies are wet. “Figured I could give it a go,” he says, slowly. He’s measuring his words, knows he can’t take them back once they’re out there. “I don’t mind it, but I don’t really want to be picking up trash for the rest of my life, you know?”

            “I think you’ll be great,” Ian says and it’s weird, because Mickey can tell how he honestly means that. He has complete faith, something no one has ever had in Mickey before. Not even his own parents, his own mother can claim to have had that.

            “Yeah?”

            Ian twists, looks at Mickey with a seriousness that floors him. “Yeah,” he says, pressing his lips to the corner of Mickey’s mouth softly. “I believe in you.”

            The words catch in Mickey’s throat with his breath. And he isn’t choking up, _he isn’t_ , but he feels a little starry eyed all of a sudden. _How did he come to deserve this?_ Mickey’s never been lucky in his life, but he thinks that’s probably because he’s used it all up on this one thing. On Ian.

            “You have to do me first,” Ian says, settling back against Mickey. Mickey knows his eyes are already starting to slip shut again.

            His own are feeling heavy.

            “You hate needles,” he feels the need to point out, amused.

            Honestly, he’d love the idea of tattooing Ian. Of marking him with not just his teeth and his scars, but with ink and pride too. He wants to mark him in every way, paint his signature across Ian’s soul.

            “Not for you,” Ian replies, thumb rubbing over Mickey’s left ring finger. It feels like a promise. “Not for you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Did I do something? You can tell me! Is that why you're still not following me? I'm [themintsauce](http://themintsauce.tumblr.com) and I'm waiting.
> 
> Should I try pick-up lines? Would that make you happy?


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